


You Were High School (And I Was Just More Like Real Life)

by trashcangimmick



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Alternate Universe - High School, Art Teacher Lucifer, Daddy Kink, FTM Sam Winchester, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Stoner Sam Winchester, Tattoos, This Is A Dumpster Fire And I'm Not Even Sorry, Trans Character, Underage - Freeform, teacher/student relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-25
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-11-04 23:15:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11001042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashcangimmick/pseuds/trashcangimmick
Summary: “Can I sleep in your bed? And when I crawl out in the morning, can I stay inside your head?”Teenaged trans boy Sam smokes hella weed and bangs his douchebag art teacher.





	You Were High School (And I Was Just More Like Real Life)

**Author's Note:**

> Did you read the tags bro? This is about underage (17 year old) FTM Sam having sex with Lucifer his 40 year old art teacher. There's daddy kink. There's a lot of weed smoking. There's a lot of Lucy being a creeper and drawing Sam naked. This is morally bankrupt, self-indulgent garbage. Caveat Emptor.

Sam has been through enough bullshit in his short seventeen years on earth to know a sleazeball when he sees one.

As soon as he walks into the art classroom, in some red-brick high school in middle-of-nowhere Colorado, his douchenozzle radar is tripping like crazy. It’s not Jason Whitt, the football quarterback he’s already had the displeasure of meeting. It’s not Hector Presley, the class president, soon-to-be valedictorian, sweater vest wearing social trainwreck who has taken it upon himself to show Sam around and try to be oh so tolerant and welcoming. It’s not even _Stefan_ , the goth in knee-high leather boots and a Bauhaus t-shirt who didn’t get the memo that he’s a few decades late.

Nope. It’s the teacher in the flannel shirt and paint-splattered jeans.

He’s wearing converse chucks. He’s got tattoos all up his arms. His blonde hair is sticking out from underneath a maroon beanie, and he looks like he’s trying to blend in with the crowd despite being obviously in his thirties. If not forties. It rubs Sam exactly the wrong way. And of course, even though he takes a seat at one of the square tables towards the back of the room, between Hector and a girl with braces named Marcy, he still gets singled out as the New Kid.

“And it looks like we’ve got some fresh meat today,” the teacher snaps his gum. He couldn’t be any more unprofessional if he tried. “Pipsqueak in the back, care to stand up and share yourself with the class?”

“No,” Sam says. Flat. Bored. Dying inside.

Watch the ‘pipsqueak’ moniker stick. It’s not his fault that he’s a grand height of five and a half feet tall. Just like it’s not his fault that he’s got a high voice, and a soft face, and narrow shoulders. He layers two sports bras, a tank top, and a baggy t-shirt to give the appearance of a flat chest. This year, he even got his dad to stop calling him Samantha.

Hormones are going to be another battle entirely, but if he tries to take life more than one step at a time he just gets depressed and wants to give up.

“Everyone, Sam Pollock. Sam Pollock, everyone else. My name is Luke. Do not call me Mr. D’Angolo. I will not respond. Now… back to the mess at hand. Painting.”

Sam tunes out pretty quick. Hector brings him a canvas. Sam picks up a brush. Covers the white cloth with splotches of haphazard color. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, and he doesn’t care. They put him in this class because there wasn’t room in any other elective. He’s not good at art. He just hopes he’s not going to be so bad at it that he ruins his GPA.

He’s not sure how long they’re gonna be here. Dean seemed to think it was long enough to get them an actual sublet, and to snag a job at the local grocery store. Dad’s long gone, of course. He left them nowhere near enough money in an envelope on the table, and said to call Bobby if things got dire.

It could be worse, Sam supposes. Overall this school is pretty average, even if it’s on the small side. The likelihood of him getting hate-crimed seems low. He’s just gonna keep his head down and phone it in, like always.

 

***

 

It takes three days before the inevitable confrontation. Sam is starting to get up, to head off to lunch, when he feels a hand on his bicep.

“Hey. Pipsqueak. Do you think we could chat for a second?”

Sam has never done well with passive-aggressive questions. Things that look like opportunities to say no, even if they aren’t. Part of him wants to scream ‘nope, you can fuck right off!’ but it’s probably not a good idea at this stage of things.

After all, Sam is a Good Boy. Keeps most of his rage under wraps. Teachers like him. He turns in his work on time, contributes to class when prompted, and doesn’t cause any fuss. Doesn’t matter if his internal monologue is dripping with poison and disdain.

“Sure. What’s up?” Sam swivels in his chair, and forces a smile.

Mr. “Call Me Luke” D’Angolo leans against the table, arms crossed, easy amused expression hitched across his face.

If they bumped into each other at a gay bar, and Sam had a couple drinks in him, he’d probably think Mr. D’Angolo was kinda hot. He does have a type. It trends towards selfish asshole. He starts to drool at overconfident swagger, if it’s directed at _him._ Because look at his Dad. Look at Dean. Look at all that imprinting of _real men are gritty, emotionally-stunted cowboys who won’t admit they love you unless they are in imminent mortal peril._ It’s no wonder he’s got terrible taste.

But Sam is not an idiot. He’s had a lot of experience spotting and avoiding danger. Mr. D’Angolo might know how to play friendly. He might be well-versed in the song and dance of a concerned authority figure. Underneath it, though. There’s a clear predator, licking its’ chops at the little morsel he’s got alone and cornered.

“I just wanted to see how you were adjusting,” Mr. D’Angolo starts off. Nice and easy. “I know navigating a new school can be a bitch.”

“It’s fine, I guess,” Sam shrugs.

“That’s good. You’re catching up on all your classes?”

“Yep.”

“Nobody’s given you any trouble, have they? I know this town isn’t the most inviting place for us queers. If you needed a sympathetic ear, I’m always here to listen.”

Sam barely keeps from raising an eyebrow at that. Queer. It’s not surprising that Mr. D’Angolo would admit that. Especially if this is the tacky come-on it looks like.

“Jason Whitt gets kind of excessive during dodgeball, but I’m fine.”

Mr. D’Angolo rolls his eyes. “Jason Whitt is a moron. Let me know if it gets any worse, though. I’d like to think I have a little pull around here.”

“OK.”

“Are you out to your parents?”

“Kind of. My Dad isn’t really around enough to care.”

“Ouch.” Mr. D’Angolo turns a slight frown. “That sounds like a fantastic home life.”

“My brother and I get by.”

Sam would balk at getting asked such personal questions, but it’s nothing he hasn’t said before. He’s learned to distract people from anything bigger going on by divulging things that would be concerning for a normal person, but aren’t even on the top 100 list of his many, many bizarre problems.

“Well, like I said. Let me know if I can do anything for you.”

“Yep.”

“Good talk.” Mr. D’Angolo pats him on the head and walks away.

Interesting. Not as sleazy as Sam thought it would be. Then again, maybe Mr. D’Angolo is just into the slow burn.

 

***

 

Sam had written off his chances for getting laid in a town like this. But it turns out that Hector is more open-minded than he looks.

Or rather, he’s a desperate virgin, who is more than happy to let Sam sit on his dick after they’ve shared a joint.

_“Fuck.”_

Hector moans. They’re out in the living room. Sitting on the cracked leather couch. Sam’s in Hector’s lap. Both of them still have their shirts on. Dean isn’t home. That seemed like such a novel idea to Hector. A house without even the barest suggestion of adult supervision. Sam honestly expected them to just do homework. But when he whipped out his drugs, Hector didn’t run screaming, so…

All and all, Hector actually isn’t bad looking. Sure, he’s got an acne problem and thick glasses. But he’s got nice hair. Soft brown curls. Soft brown skin. Sweet smile.

Huge dick.

Sam had to snag one of Dean’s Magnum condoms, because he was not prepared for that particular twist. He’s not complaining at all. He hasn’t gotten fucked in weeks. They were on the road too much before they settled down here. No time to cruise, especially with Dad around.

Sam’s been aching for it. He’s so wet, he didn’t even need to grab the lube. Nope, he just sank right down onto Hector’s thick, throbbing cock, ready to enjoy the ride.

He’s taking it slow, since Hector seems a little overwhelmed. Sam usually doesn’t slut it up with anyone who isn’t at least in their twenties, so he hasn’t encountered many virgins. But it’s not bad. Kinda flattering, in a way. Makes Sam feel all warm fuzzy that he gets to do this for someone. Be their _first_.

He holds the sides of Hector’s face and kisses him. Never stops rocking down onto his dick. He’s not really expecting it to last very long.

“That feels so… so awesome,” Hector is all breathless. Flushed. It’s a good look on him.

Sam grins. “You’re not half bad at this.”

“Really?”

“I’m probably gonna come soon.”

Granted, it doesn’t take a lot to get Sam off. He’s used to jerking it in motel bathrooms with locks that don’t work. Sometimes, if he is appropriately horny, he can get it done in two minutes or less. And Hector feels real good. Stretching him so wide.

Sam reaches down and starts touching himself. Fast and rough. Hector looks like he might short-circuit. His hands are on Sam’s hips, nails digging into skin. Sam gasps. Starts to tense.

And in that moment before he shakes apart, maybe he sees a flash of blond hair and a crooked smile. Wide, inked-up forearms with such promisingly thick fingers…

Sam comes with an embarrassing squeak. Gushes a little. Makes a mess all over Hector’s thighs. That’s all it takes to have Hector gasping too.

They kiss some more in the afterglow. Sam feels all loose and lazy. He slumps forward and rests his head on Hector’s shoulder. It’s nice. Safe. All the things Sam doesn’t usually have. For a moment, he almost wishes he could be content in a semi-normal relationship, with an age-appropriate and non-sketchy partner. He knows, deep down, that it really couldn’t keep him interested for very long. Hector wouldn’t be able to deliver on half the filthy things that Sam craves.

Sam’s just been too screwed up for too long. His sense of ‘normal’ is irreversibly warped. He shouldn’t inflict that on someone with the potential to lead a nice, boring life.

Nah. After a few more good rides, he’s gonna pass Hector off to Marcy, and everyone will be happier for it.

 

***

 

“Sam, I gotta be honest with you here. I’m a little worried about you…”

Mr. D’Angolo is staring down at the slipshod painting Sam threw together in time for critique. It’s bad. Sam knows it’s bad. Just a bunch of color smears, in fiery red and orange. The barest outline of something dark and menacing in the distance. Hints of claws, teeth and terror. Yknow. A regular Tuesday night.

“I’m not good at art,” Sam shrugs.

“Who told you that?”

“Nobody had to. I just know.”

“This,” Mr. D’Angolo taps the edge of the canvas, “is the most raw, vibrant, emotional outcry I have seen in a good long while. It’s powerful. It’s a tangled mess of fear and pain. That’s what has me concerned.”

“With all due respect, Mr. D’Angolo, I think you’re reading too far into this.”

“Luke.”

“Hmm?”

“Call me Luke, you little shit.” He lightly swats Sam on the back of the head. The classroom is empty by this point. Hector is out sick today. Sam wasn’t particularly looking forward to eating lunch alone, so it’s not like he’s in some sort of rush.

“OK, _Luke,”_ Sam might roll his eyes a little. “It’s just a painting. Honest.”

“You know, I didn’t always plan on being an artist.” Mr. D’Angolo plops down in the chair next to Sam. Folds his hands on the table. “I’ve got a degree in Psychology.”

_Christ._

“So, you gonna diagnose me or something?” Sam snorts. He can’t help himself. Some of the sarcasm has started to seep in around the edges. They’ve been in town for almost three weeks.

“I don’t know enough about you to do that.” Mr. D’Angolo cocks his head. “But from what I have seen, you’re quite the troubled young man. Withdrawn. Self-deprecating. Unstable home life… my heart goes out to you. Seems like you have it pretty rough.”

“Everybody has it rough.”

“How about this?” Mr. D’Angolo licks his lips. It’s impossible not to track the motion. “I’ll tell you anything about me that you want to know, if you return the favor.”

“Um… OK?”

“Go ahead. Ask me something.”

“Why are you trying so hard to make a bunch of teenagers think you’re cool?”

Mr. D’Angolo laughs at that. It’s a genuine laugh. The corners of his eyes crinkle. The little mole under his left eye has always been intriguing. Sam maybe has a hard time looking away.

“Honestly? I spent a lot of my youth being nerdy and unpopular. Maybe I have a complex about it. Maybe I’m afraid of getting old. I don’t feel old. Once the years start rushing by, it all gets pretty surreal.”

“That’s fair I guess.”

“Tell me about your father.”

“Could you be any more stereotypical?”

“Don’t dodge the question.” Mr. D’Angolo nudges Sam with his elbow. It’s an oddly intimate gesture. Friendly. Teasing.

Sam has to admit, the guy’s good. Charming, but just shy of smarmy. Walks a strange line between pretentious and genuine. It seems like he gets more attractive by the day, but then again, maybe Sam’s just going stir-crazy.

“Fine.” Sam drums his fingers on the table top for a moment, thinking. “My Dad goes on business trips a lot. He’s always been a workaholic. My mom passed away when I was really young, and I don’t think he ever got over it. He was a soldier, and he raised me and my brother like soldiers. I learned how to shoot a gun when I was nine years old. He drinks more than he should, and tends to yell when drunk. The two of us haven’t gotten along in a years. He was nice to me when I was younger. Used to buy me dresses and dolls. When I cut my hair off and started wearing my brother’s hand-me-downs, he didn’t like it. I think he wanted a daughter pretty bad, and is still upset that I won’t be that for him.”

Sam’s heart is pounding in his throat. He’s not usually quite that honest with people. Granted, it’s far from the whole truth. No talk of demons or monsters or things that go bump in the night. But still.

He’s not prepared for it, when Mr. D’Angolo puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes. It sends a sharp thrill through him. The sensation of being wanted. It’s addictive.

“Thank you,” Mr. D’Angolo says softly.

“For what?”

“Telling me something real. A lot of people try to bullshit me. But you’re not like most people, Sam.”

Ain’t that the truth?

They sit in silence for a little while. Mr. D’Angolo still holding Sam’s shoulder. In effect, his arm is draped around Sam. All the warning signals should be flashing. Sam might be in over his head here—which is a rare thing indeed.

Funny enough, he doesn’t want to pump the breaks. If anything, he wants to dive in deeper.

 

***

 

Apparently, Mr. D’Angolo has a bit of a reputation. Sam starts asking around, and finds out plenty. The guy’s had multiple rumored affairs with students. The sort of shit that should get him arrested. But everyone likes him too much. He’s the best art teacher the school’s ever had. Nobody wants to get rid of him.

So the rumors stay amongst the student body, and skirt the teachers, or anyone who’d feel inclined to do something about it.

From Sam’s understanding, the guy at least tends to go for seniors. Maybe because he likes to pick a new one every year, and doesn't want the fuss of the last one getting jealous. With someone graduating soon, there's a built-in expiration date. Maybe he waits until they're eighteen so that it's just kind of wrong instead of unquestionably gross.

It's mostly been girls. One or two guys. Maybe more and it's just not common knowledge.

Sam should know better. He should keep his distance. But Mr. D’Angolo has already Taken An Interest.

Deep down, Sam is a dirty little whore.

He tells himself it's better, because he's not going in blind. He's far from inexperienced. Far from Naive. He's not being taken advantage of if he gets exactly what he wants.

He knows it's all a rationalization. An excuse to do something ill-advised. He's running on fumes and nothing matters.

Why not bang his douchebag teacher?

 

***

 

The last bell rings. Instead of heading outside to catch the bus, Sam heads downstairs, towards the west corner of the building. There are still people milling through the hallways, but it's emptying out fast. It is a Friday after all.

Dean gave Sam money for a motel room this morning. He wanted the apartment to himself to hook up with some girl from the store. Sam doesn't mind. He’s got plans of his own.

Luke is standing in front of the large, metal sink at the front of the room, washing paintbrushes. He's got his sleeves rolled up. Looks pleasantly disheveled. He hears the door squeak as it swings shut and turns his head.

“Well hello there, Sam. What a nice surprise.”

Sam plops down at the nearest table. They sit in silence for a few minutes, while Luke finishes up what he was doing. He turns around, drying his hands on a dish rag, and raises an eyebrow.

“What can I do ya for?”

“Free, if you play your cards right.”

Luke grins at that. “Always so sassy. But seriously, what's up? It's the weekend. Shouldn't you be scampering off to cause some trouble?”

“Probably.”

Luke settles down next to him. “Something on your mind, pipsqueak?”

“Do you have a partner?” Sam thought a lot about the best way to approach this. He's pretty sure he could straight-up throw himself at Luke, no finesse, and have a reasonable chance of success. But he has a little dignity.

“Not at the moment,” Luke smiles. Bemused, but not upset. “Do you? Seems like Hector has been giving you some pretty serious moony eyes.”

Huh. So he's been watching. Not surprising.

“Yeah. We hooked up a couple times. But he’s a little young for me.”

“Sammy, don't tell me you're out there messing around with closeted frat boys. That only ever ends in tears.”

“Personal experience?”

“Unfortunately, yeah. Took me a little while to learn my lesson.”

“College boys are still too young for me.” Sam says it in a perfect deadpan. Watches it hit the mark like a ton of bricks.

Luke tries to hide his reaction. But Sam still sees him flex his fingers. Take a few measured breaths. There's blood in the water.

“Well. Sounds like you’ve got specific tastes. More than I could say for most kids your age.”

“Yeah. I guess when you lose your virginity to your older brother's friend, the age gap thing kind of sticks.”

“How much of a gap are we talking, Sammy?”

“Well. I was fourteen and Dustin was twenty.”

“Jesus.”

“It was my idea, if that makes you feel any better about it. Though, from what I’ve heard, you and I are two sides of the same coin.”

“Oh?”

“You have a history of being unable to resist sweet, young things.”

Luke lets out a long sigh. “That rumor is gonna haunt me the rest of my life.”

“It's not true?”

“Parts of it are. I did have an affair with a student about seven years ago. Lilly. Just in the last few months of her senior year. We dated for a little while after that. But she went to college and broke it off. Probably for the best.”

Hmmm. Sam's not sure if he believes that's the whole story. It's interesting, if Luke is lying. Trying to preserve the air of a repentant sinner instead of a repeat offender.

“That's all?” Sam prompts.

“Well… maybe there’ve been a couple incidents here and there. But I swear it's not half as bad as they make me sound. It was mostly when I was younger.”

“I see… so you're not interested?”

“In what?”

“Fucking my brains out.”

Sam isn't the most patient boy in the world. Sometimes even when he tries for coy, he ends up sounding slutty. Because sex isn't that big a deal, and he doesn't understand why everyone gets so bent out of shape about it.

“I… really shouldn't do that.” He sounds almost physically pained.

“But you want to?”

“Of course I freakin’ want to. Just look at you.”

“So, let's go.”

“Are you sure?” Luke puts a hand on Sam’s knee. “I mean, just because I’ve slipped up before doesn't mean I think it isn't wrong. You're so young. I should be looking out for you, not taking advantage.”

“Is it really taking advantage if I’m the one instigating it? Besides. This isn't exactly my first rodeo.”

Luke gives him an odd look. Might be a mixture of lust and pity.

“OK. Walk down to the corner of 15th and Pine. I’ll pick you up there after I finish putting everything away.”

Luke stands up again, and goes back to cleaning the room. Sam's a little shocked. But he gets himself together and starts walking. Makes sense that they shouldn't leave together.

After all, this isn't Luke’s first rodeo either. He’s never been caught before. Which means he must have been at least somewhat smart about it.

 

***

 

Luke has a small house on the outskirts of town. Nice and private. Even has a garage, so if the neighbors happened to feel nosy, they still wouldn't see Sam getting out of the car.

Sam’s heart is pounding as he follows Luke through the door, into what looks like the kitchen. It's cramped, and cluttered, but undeniably homey. Dishes in the sink. Brushes, paint pots, and sketch pads stacked on the small wooden table. The refrigerator is decorated in a collage of postcards from all over the country, along with pictures of what must be friends and family. All available wall space is covered with art. Framed paintings. Canvases hung on their own. Even drawings stuck to the wall with tape or thumb tacks.

It never occurred to Sam to wonder what Luke’s art was like. Sure, he's seen the guy help people in class. But it's much different to look at his personal collection.

He’s really good. There's a mix of intricate detail and impressionism. Photorealism of nude women with gigantic bird wings. Vibrant landscapes filled with abstract jungle creatures. Children wearing animal masks, holding axes and knives. Every piece has something just a little _off_ about it. Something that makes you look harder, and feel more uneasy the longer you stare.

There's a lot of sex. Copulating bodies. Slick, dripping orifices. Some tends more towards suggestive than explicit. Then there are a few graphic close ups of penetration, lips wrapped around cocks, fingers in holes. Some of the magical realism bleeds over into what can only be called tentacle porn.

He knew Luke was a pervert. Seeing it up close and personal just makes Sam kinda wet.

“Did you want a glass of water or anything? A beer? My bong is in the living room…”

Luke steps in close. The top of Sam’s head barely comes up to his shoulders. It's exhilarating. Finally being here. Sexual tension in the air so thick you can taste it.

Sam reaches up and tugs Luke down to his level. He might be small. But he's not some delicate flower.

“I want you to fucking ruin me,” Sam breathes.

Luke groans. Leans in for a kiss that’s all hunger and raw adrenaline. Sam’s barely parted his lips before Luke grabs his ass and lifts him off the damn ground like he weighs nothing.

Next thing he knows, he's sitting on the edge of the counter, Luke standing between his legs. They're about the same height like this. So Sam can knock that stupid beanie off Luke’s head. Grab his hair. Tug. Nip at Luke’s lips. Give as brutal as he's getting.

It feels so good to be pressed up against someone broad-shouldered and solid. Someone who is undeniably a _man._ Rough skin, ropey muscle, a few days worth of stubble on his chin. Sam always pines after people who could break him in half.

“You have no idea how long I’ve been thinking about this,” Luke breathes.

“I think I might.” Sam squeezes at the growing bulge in Luke’s jeans. Oh so promising. “You're kinda a sleazy bastard.”

Luke huffs out a laugh, pressing into Sam’s hand. “Yeah. And you're a brat.”

“Gonna teach me a lesson, Daddy?” Sam’s a twisted little cookie. He likes to play games. This is one of his favorites. He wouldn't admit it, but just saying the word out loud makes him throb.

“Doubt it’ll do much good, but I’m sure gonna have fun trying, baby.”

Obviously, it’s a game that works for Luke too. Because he's already scrabbling to unzip Sam’s pants and tear them off. Sam’s boxers wind up on the floor, along with his jeans. He’s so sticky. Wants it real bad.

He's not expecting Luke to drop to his knees. Sam figured that he’d be more selfish in bed. Maybe get you off as an afterthought, if you’re lucky.

Sometimes, it's fun to be wrong.

Luke drags his tongue between the slippery folds of skin. Messy kisses. Hands resting on Sam’s inner thighs, spreading him apart nice and wide. When he starts licking Sam’s cock, it's a lot to cope with. Almost too much, not enough, holy mother of god.

Sam shudders. Comes with a choked off whine. Luke just keeps going. Face drenched in slick. He slips a couple fingers in, and Sam is gonna die. He's torn between rolling his hips to get more friction, and trying to squirm away from the beautiful overstimulation.

 _“Daddy,”_ it comes out all high-pitched and pathetic. Sam is too spun out to care. His head tilts back. Knocks against the wood of the cabinet behind him.

He spasms around Luke’s fingers. Moaning like a bitch in heat, clutching at the edges of the counter in an effort to remain upright. Breathing is difficult. There’s so much blood rushing downstairs, he’s dizzy.

“You OK, honey?” Luke pulls back just enough to give Sam the most insufferable, smug smile. “Do you need me to stop?”

Sam shakes his head. In for a penny. Besides, he's never been one to back down from a challenge. He knows he can have at least ten orgasms before passing out cold, because that's what happened the first time he tried a hitachi.

Luke is right back to it. Tongue flat and dragging across Sam’s dick just right. Three fingers now. Gentle, but insistent. Sam knows he's making all sorts of embarrassing noises. He can't help it.

Sam doesn't even remember the last time someone went down on him. Clearly, it's something he needs to start demanding more often.

Luke makes this low humming noise. Sam tenses and comes hard enough to white out for a second. He gushes so much it starts dripping down into the floor.

He is floating somewhere soft and warm. Feels Luke stand up more than he sees it. Kisses taste like ocean water. Then just soft skin.

“Are you on the pill or anything?”

Sam manages to nod. At the back of his mind, he knows fucking without a condom is a terrible idea. But this all sorts of bad anyway. What's one more poor decision in the name of pleasure?

“I’m clean.” Luke murmurs. “I really wanna feel you, baby boy. When was the last time you got tested?”

Good question. The free clinic back in California? Had to have been about six months ago. But he doesn't make a habit of raw dogging it. He was fine then…

“I should be good.”

Sam opens his eyes in time to get a view of Luke stripping. He might unconsciously spread his legs a little wider. Because Damn.

Luke isn't in perfect shape, exactly. There's some definite muscle tone. His broad chest is covered in soft blonde fuzz. He’s got a little bit of a beer belly. Which Sam has always found absurdly attractive. The tattoos go all the way up Luke’s arms, across his shoulders. Sam hasn't gotten the chance to really stare at them before. But it's apparent that Luke must have drawn some of them himself.

“You ready, sweetheart?” Luke fists his own cock. It's uncut. Shiny at the tip. Average length. Really fucking thick.

“Yes, please, Daddy. Put it in me.” Sam might whimper a little.

“God, you're filthy.” It sounds almost like adoration.

Luke lines himself up and presses forward. Sam gasps. He's already such a mess. Too hot all over. Lost in a fever dream of flesh.

“So tight, baby. You feel fantastic.” Luke starts to thrust. Slow and deep. He circles his arms around Sam’s body, cradling him close like something delicate.

Sam clutches at Luke’s shoulders, wraps his legs around Luke’s waist. He’s split open. Laid bare. Everything is pure, overwhelming sensation. Sweat and racing blood. Pleasure so sharp it's almost painful.

_Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, please don't stop._

Luke kisses Sam’s neck. Starts to pick up his pace. He shift the angle just a little, then every powerful motion punches a groan out of Sam.

“You like that, honey? Like Daddy’s cock in you?”

_“Yes.”_

“You gonna come for me?”

“Uh huh. ‘M close.”

“It's so easy to get you off. I fucking love it. Such an eager little slut for me.”

Sam can feel the tension coiling. He’s surfing the edge. Luke slides a hand between them. Rests his fingers on Sam’s hip. Dips his thumb down to drag it across Sam’s cock.

Falling apart completely never felt so good. Sam squeezes down around Luke’s dick. Head thrown back. Lips parted. Eyes closed. He's checked out. Elvis has left the building.

He barely notices when Luke goes still. Grunts. Adds to the mess inside him. Fuck. Luke came inside him. That shouldn’t be so hot.

Sam’s limbs are jelly. He's not confident in his ability to walk at any point in the near future. He's almost grateful when Luke scoops him up, carries him bridal-style across the house.

They pass through the living room. The walls are just as crowded as the kitchen. There’s a dumpy couch, a TV, and a record player. The coffee table is just covered in weed paraphernalia. A bong, several glass pipes, lighters, a grinder, and a goddamned mason jar full of pot. What a burnout.

Then they’re in the bedroom. It's a mess. Clothes all over the floor. Bed unmade. The top of the dresser is cluttered in all sorts of trinkets and  junk. There are christmas lights zig-zagged across the ceiling, casting a dull glow over the scene.

Luke sets Sam down on the bed. Kisses him gently before disappearing into what must be the bathroom. He comes back with a glass of water, that Sam happily chugs.

Sam’s exhausted. He can feel his eyelids drooping. Luke sits on the edge of the bed and smiles down at him, stroking his hair.

Maybe Sam could just doze for a minute…

 

***

 

It's raining. The sound of water droplets pattering against the window wakes Sam up gradually.

He’a sprawled across a queen-sized bed. Naked from the waist down. It takes a second to remember where he is and why.

“I was wondering if you were out for the night.”

Sam blinks a few times. Luke is sitting in a chair by the door, scribbling on a sketch pad with a sharpie. He's got on an unzipped hoodie and a pair of boxers.

“Are you… drawing me?”

“You're cute when you sleep. I mean, you’re cute all the time. But you looked so peaceful. Couldn't resist.”

He pauses and flips the paper around. It definitely looks a lot like Sam. If he had bat wings, and had been sleeping with them folded around himself.

Luke goes back to what he was doing. His eyes are a little bloodshot. The room smells like weed.

Sam stumbles off to the bathroom to go clean up. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He’s got a huge hickey at the base of his neck. He doesn't even remember that happening, but he's not upset about it. He likes getting marked up. Being able to press at the bruises later if he starts to feel lonely. There's nothing like a physical reminder of being wanted, at least momentarily, to keep the bad thoughts at bay.

When Sam gets back to the bedroom, Luke is hitting taking a rip off a chillum. He holds the smoke for a moment before exhaling and offering it out to Sam. Turning down free drugs is a sin of the highest order, so Sam gladly takes a rip before sitting on the bed again.

“It's kinda late.” Luke glances over at the clock digital clock on the dresser. Sam follows his gaze. 9:09 PM. Christ. He was asleep for hours.

“Oh wow.”

“Do I need to drive you home or something?” Luke starts filling up the chillum with fresh weed.

“I’m probably staying at a motel tonight. So sure, if you wanna drop me off at the cheap one by the highway,” Sam says without thinking.

“What now?” Luke gapes.

“My brother wants the apartment to himself tonight.”

“So he told you to go to a motel? What the fuck.”

“I mean, it's cool. I don't mind. He gave me money for it.”

“Do you want to stay here… ?”

“Oh… um… really?”

“Yeah. I mean, you don't have to, obviously. But if we aren't pressed for time, I can think of several things I’d love to do to you.”

His smile is almost wolffish. It makes Sam want to shiver.

“OK,” he finds himself mumbling. Starting to feel warm again.

“First, what do you say we order a pizza? I, for one, am super stoned and starving.”

“Hell yeah.”

“Cool. I’ll go call. Weed’s in the living room. Help yourself if you want.”

Luke tosses his sketch pad on the dresser, stands up and stretches. He nudges his chair out of the way and walks out, presumably towards the kitchen or something. Sam gets off the bed, headed for the living room.

But he's always been too curious for his own good. He can't resist picking up the drawing Luke did, and flipping back through the pages to see if there's anything else.

He’s not disappointed.

There's a page of detailed closeups. His face. Hands. Feet.

A sketch from a very specific view, looking up at him. Legs spread, mouth open. What he must have looked like a few hours ago, when Luke was on his knees.

Sam keeps expecting a change of subject. But as he flips back further, it's still more of him. Sitting in art class, head down. Standing in the hallway. Walking down the sidewalk, backpack on his shoulders.

There are a few that should probably concern him. Like a clearly imagined scene of him with his wrists tied above his head, whip marks on his ass. Or him in some faceless guy’s lap, riding a cock. Or the one where he's on his knees, surrounded in a semicircle of naked men, with a dick in his mouth and one in each hand, covered in jizz and god knows what else.

Mostly, he's just kinda impressed with Luke’s ability to capture his likeness from memory. And also inappropriately turned on by the fact that Luke’s been drawing him into porn for weeks.

“What do you think?”

Sam nearly jumps out of his skin. Luke is standing there, leaning against the door frame, not a trace of shame in his expression.

“You’re a dirty old man.” Sam puts the sketch book down. He's wet again.

“Kinda seems like you’re into it.”

Luke steps forward. Hands on Sam’s ass. Sam presses up against him. Smiles.

“Do we have time to fuck before the pizza gets here?”

Luke responds by shrugging out of his hoodie and pushing his boxers down. He walks towards the bed, leading Sam along with him. Luke lies down on his back. Sam climbs on top of him, straddling his thighs. He shouldn't be this turned on already. But he's not the only one. Luke is hard again. It's easy to just grab the base of his dick and sink down into it.

He’s kinda sore from earlier. Luke gave it to him good. But Sam has always liked it to hurt a little.

He takes his time. Rocking down onto Luke’s cock. Just enjoying the slide of skin. Luke runs his hands up Sam’s thighs. Grabs his ass.

“Yeah, baby,” he murmurs. “You look so good… bouncing on my dick like a little slut.”

Sam gasps. It's something he doesn't exactly love to admit to himself. But being humiliated. Used. It gets him real fucking hot.

Luke must notice that Sam speeds up a little. Gets even wetter. Because he smacks Sam’s ass and grins.

“You like being Daddy’s whore, huh?”

_“Yes.”_

“Fuck… I’d love to see all your holes stuffed at the same time. I should invite some of my friends over here. We can find out how many cocks you can handle at once. I bet you’d make Daddy proud.”

Sam shivers. Tries to touch himself, but Luke knocks his hand away.

“Well, if you want to do that maybe you should ask nicely.” Luke cocks an eyebrow. He’s still smiling. But there's a different edge to it now.

Sometimes, Sam hates himself when he’s stuffed full of dick. Because all his ideas about dignity and self-control go right out the window.

“Please, Daddy,” he hiccups. Actually tearing up a little bit. “‘Please—it just—it feels so good.”

“I think you can be just a little more patient.”

Luke smacks his ass again. Hard enough to sting. Sam’s rhythm stutters. His thighs are trembling. Luke starts thrusting up into him. Hard. Deep. Sam stops moving. Just braces himself, hands on Luke’s chest.

The room is an echo chamber of filthy slick sounds. The tension coiling inside Sam is inescapable. He can't usually finish without direct stimulation on his dick. But he's having trouble keeping his breath steady. Luke keeps dragging over a spot inside him that makes everything feel like a technicolor spiral of urgent need.

“Daddy. I’m so close. Please can I?” Sam’s a sloppy fucked-out mess. He’d do anything. Say anything. Just as long as he’s allowed to have an orgasm ASAP.

“Mmmm. So greedy.” Luke laughs. “It's like I didn't get you off three times today already.”

“Please, please, please. Touch me Daddy. It hurts.”

“I’m hurting you?” Luke slows down. Somehow, that makes things even worse. Sam squirms. Tries to push back against him.

“No!” he _wails_. “I—um—I wanna finish so bad it hurts.”

“I see. Don't scare me like that, baby.”

“I’m _sorry.”_

“It’s all right. I know you’re not used to being denied what you want. It must be hard to cope with.”

Sam might be halfway to for-real crying now. He did learn that turning on the waterworks increases his chances of getting what he wants at a very early age. But he's also feeling overstimulated, and off balance, and desperate to come. So y’know.

 _“Daddy,”_ Sam sobs.

“Fuck,” Luke grunts. He tenses. He’s coming inside Sam. Again. Grunting and gasping. He rubs his fingers across Sam’s cock as an afterthought. Uncoordinated. Half-hearted. It's enough. Sam collapses forward. Whole body spasming. Blissed out.

It takes at least a few minutes before he gets the feeling back in his extremities. Luke is rubbing his back absentmindedly. Sam kisses him like he wants to drown in it.

There's good sex, and then there’s the steep slope of addiction. This feels kind of like the latter, and Sam’s not even mad about it.

 

***

 

It's probably sad how fast they fall into the routine. But it's not like Sam has anybody around to ask why he’s getting home at midnight, smelling like jizz and weed. Luke doesn't seem to have any obligations besides showing up to work.

So after school, Sam waits on the corner of Pine, and Luke picks him up. They go back to Luke’s house and get stoned. Drink beer. Eat takeout. Sometimes, Luke even cooks.

They spend a lot of time fucking, sure. That's what it's all about. But Sam will also sit on the couch in borrowed sweatpants and do his math homework while Luke reads, or plays games, or draws him. It's weird—how normal it feels. Almost domestic. Sam doesn't do domestic. Just straight up, the opportunity had never presented itself before.

He kind of likes it.

He kind of really likes it. Beyond getting fucked so hard he see stars. He likes taking showers together. Eating meals together. Sometimes falling asleep together, on weekends, when neither of them has to be anywhere the next day.

Luke is a cuddler. He’ll pull Sam close, and hold him tight, and it feels so good, Sam hardly minds the rumbling snores.

It's not something Sam should get used to. He knows it's temporary—like everything in his life. But it's nice to pretend, just for a second, that someone cares about him enough to let him hang around and it's not going to get taken away.

Luke’s house is peaceful at night. Sam is used to sleeping next to windows that face highways, or apartments above train tracks, or just in the backseat of a moving car. There aren't any streetlights out here. There's more nature than man made structures. The quiet, the darkness, the stillness of it all should be unnerving… but sprawled in Luke’s bed, it's almost pleasant.

Maybe it's because Sam’s stoned. He’s been stoned for a solid twenty-four hours. Luke made hash brownies and then they've been smoking sporadically on top of that. They've had less sex than usual since neither of them wants to move much.

Sam’s not even sure the last time they said something out loud. Luke’s awake. His eyes are open. They’ve just been lying here quietly, curled around each other.

“Daddy?” Sam’s voice is rough. Mouth all cottony.

“Yes, kitten?”

“Can I have some water?”

“Of course.” Luke sits up enough to grab the glass next to the bed. It's mostly empty. He gets up to fill it without complaining.

Sam hates how it makes his stomach flip. The only time anyone brings him food or drinks is if he's sick as a dog, laid up in bed, and even then it's only if Dean’s not working. He likes being _pampered._ Even if it's something small and practically meaningless.

Luke returns, with the water, a beer, and a freshly packed pipe. He lights up while Sam has the water. Drinks the beer when Sam takes a hit. They proceed like that until the weed is gone, and the pleasant lassitude has dragged them horizontal again. Sam is facing the wall now, his back against Luke’s chest.

If he shifts his head, he can see what Luke has dubbed The Museum Of Sam. It's the most extra thing. So many drawings, even a few paintings, hung up in the far right corner.

It's the tamer stuff. The more abstract stuff. No explicit nudity or sex. Luke keeps those tucked away somewhere else. Which is probably for the best if he wants to avoid prison. But it's still a lot to handle. Sam’s almost asked him to take it all down before. Except then Luke smiled, and said how much he likes seeing Sam when he wakes up—whether they had a sleepover or not. Sam is a sucker, apparently.

Luke’s hand wanders, still slow and lazy. Tracing across Sam’s stomach. They both sleep naked now. Which is kind of a thing. Because Sam doesn't like being shirtless most of the time. But Luke never stares. The skin on skin contact is nice.

Sam is wet. He tends to stay wet all day when they do this sort of thing. He’s kind of expecting Luke’s fingers to end up between his thighs. He’s not wrong. Exactly. But Luke switches course at the last minute. Opting instead to start teasing over Sam’s asshole.

“God,” Luke murmurs. “You’re still all slick and open, baby…”

As if to illustrate his point, he slides two fingers into Sam’s hole. It’s a stretch. But doesn’t really burn. Luke spent a truly admirable amount of time working him open earlier. Sam’s not surprised he’s still pretty much ready to go. That he still l _wants_ to go, even though he’s puffy and sore.

“What do you think, sweetheart?” Luke kisses the back of Sam’s neck. “Can you handle having Daddy’s cock in your sweet little ass again?”

“Yes. Please. I want it.” Sam’s already babbling. Pushing back against Luke’s hand. He’s past the point of caring that he acts like an idiot whenever they’re naked.

Luke pushes another finger in him. Shifts around on the bed. Sam hears the cap of the lube click. Luke’s fingers are replaced by the fat head of his dick. It’s just on the edge of pain. But it’s that _dirty_ sort of pain. The kind that almost feels good. Like pressing against a deep muscle ache. Like running past the point where your legs start to wobble and threaten to give out.

It stays pretty mellow. Luke just gently rocking into him. Sam whining. Spreading his legs wider. He hooks one of his knees over Luke’s thigh for a better angle.

Luke wraps both arms around him. Keeps kissing his shoulders. His ears. It makes him shiver. He’d been fucked in the ass before, but he never liked it all that much. He doesn’t have a prostate. With Luke though… it still feels pretty damn good. It would never make him come on its own. But it’s still definitely a worthy use of his time.

Sam is talking. He knows he is. Just doesn’t really know what he’s saying. It might be nonsense words. Jumbled variations of _Daddy, please, fuck me, feels so good, more, deeper, need it._

Luke rolls them both over, so they’re lying on the other side of the bed. Sam kind of loves how Luke can pick him up, or throw him around, or just position him however he feels like without much trouble. Luke starts rubbing Sam’s cock with his clean hand. Then Sam’s moaning. Shuddering. Coming. And Luke doesn’t stop. No. He keeps right on thrusting. Slips his fingers into Sam where he’s slick and throbbing. Having something in both holes is a relatively novel experience. Luke has thick fingers. Sam feels too full. Like he’s going to break.

Luke thumbs his cock, and Sam squirts. Almost screaming. _Daddy, daddy, daddy._ There’s a very large wet spot. Luke curses. Goes still.

They lie like that, panting.

“We probably need to shower.” Luke sounds so gruff. As wrecked as Sam feels.

Sam can’t do the words thing right now. So he just nods. Nuzzles against Luke’s shoulder. Luke still has an arm wrapped tight around Sam’s waist. It’s grounding. Comforting. All the things he’s never had.

 

***

 

Dean usually works weeknights. So when Sam walks through the door at ten pm, and he hears a clatter of movement, he's instantly on edge.  

There's a suitcase by the door, as well as a box of kitchen utensils and non-perishables.

Well shit. Dad has been gone for almost two and a half months. Sam should have been expecting this. But he'd been entertaining himself with a pretty fairy tale about John _never_ coming back.

Dean appears, holding a duffel bag full of weapons.

“Sammy! There you are. Start packing. Dad called. He wants us to meet him in Phoenix.”

“We’re… leaving?” Sam tries not to sound too depressed.

“Yeah,” Dean snorts. “I can't wait to get out of this shithole. Ain’t nothing to do. I thought you'd be excited to head for a city.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Sam sighs. “We have to drive overnight?”

“Whaddya mean ‘we’? Last time I let you behind the wheel we almost got arrested. Now go get your stuff.”

It was too good to last. Having any semblance of a stable life or routine was just a pipe dream.

He grabs his backpack from the closet and starts gathering his clothes. The routine is all so familiar. It almost makes things easier to stomach.

Sam doesn't usually have anyone to leave behind. When Dad swoops back in to pick him and Dean up, nobody misses him. Luke probably won't care. It's stupid to hope he would.

Sam is numb by the time he finishes. Dean’s already carried most of their belongings downstairs. He slings the bag of guns over his shoulders.

“Cheer up, buckaroo,” he claps Sam on the shoulder. “We can get pancakes for dinner or something. I just got a new credit card.”

“OK,” Sam tries to smile.

Sam is usually a contrary bastard, but his brother’s authoritarian tendencies aren’t entirely off-putting. Dean is a soldier. A protector. He’s always done his best to take care of Sam. It's not really his fault that he sometimes fucks up. He’s barely old enough to drink—in the legal sense. He’s been responsible for Sam’s well-being since they were in elementary school. It's too much to ask of somebody. Dean's sacrificed so much. Even if Sam wants to hate him sometimes, he can't bring himself to stay mad.

Together, they walk down to the parking lot. Sam gets into Dean’s rusty pickup truck, holding his backpack close to his chest like it's an anchor.

Dean turns the key in the ignition, and Zeppelin blasts over the speakers. _Babe, I’m gonna leave you_. And they say fate doesn't have a sense of humor.

They pull out of the parking lot, trundle down the road towards the interstate. Sam leans back in his seat, trying to relax. If he’s lucky, he might fall asleep soon. He doesn't feel like eating. Or talking. He just want to curl up into a ball.

 

***

 

**Is everything OK?**

Sam isn't used to getting texts on his burner phone. Dean is usually driving, or otherwise on the move, so he prefers to call. Dad is the same way.

It's been two days. Sam’s sitting in a motel room in Tempe. He figured he’d hear from Luke at some point. He just doesn't really know what to say.

**_family issues._ **

**That doesn't sound good.**

**_it's not._ **

**Anything I can do to help?**

**_sadly, i don't think so._ **

**When will you be back at school?**

**_i won't. we moved._ **

**What?**

Sam chews on his lip. It's a terrible idea. But he’ll have a new phone soon anyway. It's not like Luke will ever see him again.

The least he could do is offer a little closure.

**_i’m really not supposed to talk about it. but we’re in a witness protection program of sorts?_ **

**So your father is a criminal?**

**_yeah._ **

**Christ.**

**_he’d be really upset i just told you that._ **

**I mean, I know nothing about him. It's not like I could rat him out to anyone.**

**I don't even know where you are.**

There's a long pause.

**Is Sam your real name?**

**_yeah._ **

**Good.**

**I’m very glad to have met you, Sam.**

**_yeah. you too._ **

**I know it's probably a bad time to say this, but I do have feelings for you. I will miss you terribly.**

Sam’s not gonna cry. But there's a very uncomfortable emotion welling up inside him. He has to look out the window, at the expanse of asphalt parking lot, surrounded by succulent plants.

**_i wish i’d gotten to say goodbye. but when we have to go, it's usually sudden._ **

**I understand.**

**_i’ll miss you too._ **

**I think we’ll see each other again someday.**

**_yeah?_ **

**You’re almost eighteen. I could try to get a teaching job somewhere else.**

**I don't think it would be at all infeasible.**

**If it's something you want.**

**_i think i'd like it a lot_ **

**_daddy_ **

**Good boy.**

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the [Front Bottoms](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N05h8IVPggw) song. I listen to it and cry about Sam Winchester at least once a day tbh. 
> 
> I got the [tumbles.](http://trashcangimmick.tumblr.com/) Come say hi or something.


End file.
